


Going the distance

by lesbleusthroughandthrough



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Liverpool F.C., Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbleusthroughandthrough/pseuds/lesbleusthroughandthrough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emre kind of stood half-ways into the kitchen looking like he’d just been roused from a very deep sleep: he paused, the skin around his eyes only loose enough to let them open, looking very much like he was seeing Lazar and also seeing him right there presently in his kitchen and that, somewhere deep in his mind, he was wondering why this shouldn’t add up.</p><p>"What are you doing here?"<br/>-<br/>Lazar comes back to visit while on loan, or: I attempt a " short drabble"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going the distance

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt to write a short fic based on "things you said... when you thought I was asleep" for an anon, but I can't write anything in less than 3,000 words.
> 
> Lazar really did come back to visit Melwood but it was [in March](http://www.empireofthekop.com/2016/03/04/lazar-markovic-back-at-anfield/) and I saw somewhere that he might actually be coming back!
> 
>  
> 
> Maria is Emre's girlfriend and very private but she looks like she's super fun and they are [majorly cute together](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CPHNGndUEAAXT5G.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> I wrote this on a 14 hour flight where I a) didn't sleep at all b) watched many, many Disney movies- with that in mind, some of this might make loads more sense. Like, why its so cheesy.
> 
>  

Lazar had only attempted one nervous knock at the door was open- he was enveloped in a cloud of winter flowers and fabric softer.

“Hi Maria,” he choked.

“Laz!” she shrieked, as he struggled to breathe through the squeeze. “Oh my _God,_ what have they been feeding you?” She stepped back, patting him down over his shoulders, down his waist. “You’re wasting away!”

“Uh,” Lazar tried, “I’m fine, thanks. And how are you?”

Maria beamed at him- glamourous as always, even in sweats, and with her hair swept back.

“It’s good to see you,” Lazar admitted, realising that he’d missed her exuberant presence: the second biggest hole in his existence, probably.

“Oh, hush,” Maria was still grinning, “it wasn’t _me_ you’ve missed. Come on, you’ve been outside here too long.” She grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him behind her into the flat.

“You hungry?” she asked, practically pulling him onto a bar stool on the other side of the kitchen counter. “Of course you’re hungry. What do you want?” She opened the fridge, peering at the shelves. “Sandwich?”

“Maria,” he promised. “I’m really not hungry.” He was too nervous to be hungry, his stomach had twisted itself into the worst ever knot.

“You might as well eat _something_ ,” Maria was already stacking things into her arms. “He’s not going to be home for a bit, they’re training late.”

“Oh,” Lazar said, as the knot grew worse. He looked around the inside of the familiar flat, remembering the days he’d spent here. The longest, best days.

When he finally looked back to Maria again, he realised that she was watching him with that weird, fond look that people sometimes gave him- as if they’d found a clearly lost dog, or something.

“He misses you, you know,” she offered, turning briskly to the fridge. “Peanut butter okay?” She threw him an expectant look over her shoulder, while he desperately tried to swallow and wet his throat.

“Does he?” he asked, finally. Then, aware of how pathetic he sounded, and because his New Year’s Resolution was to put an end to the puppy thing: “I mean. He never phoned with the Turkish lessons.” _He never called at all_.

Maria shrugged, then pulled a jar and several other selected tubs from the fridge. “Sure he does,” she said. “I mention you, and he _mopes_.”

“That doesn’t say much, really.”

“You know him. You _know_ what I mean.”

Lazar had to concede, then, that he did know what she meant.

Maria had started separating bread slices on the counter across from him when she paused, giving him a quick, electric-blue x-ray when she glanced at him.

Lazar hadn’t been able to reply this time over the lump in his throat. In a way, being away from Emre for this long had made things easier. And how long had it been? Six months?

He felt a hand on his, curled into a fist on the table. Maria’s was very soft in comparison, like a cloth, and when he met her eyes he could tell she was still scanning him.

“How do you do it?” he asked, finally.

She didn’t reply, in a way that distinctly said: _elaborate._

“For Valentine’s day,” he continued, tripping over his words a bit with nerves, “instead of spending time with your boyfriend, you invite over your boyfriend’s…”

He halted. In this mess, what even was he?

Maria’s face softened. “I see him every couple of weeks,” she explained. “When you can’t. And it’s _you_ , you know? I’m okay with it because it’s you.” And she went back to making Lazar a peanut butter sandwich, like she hadn’t just said that it was totally fine for Emre to knock boots with someone else, and for her to know about it.

Lazar didn’t know what to answer, so instead he stared moodily at his sandwich. Maria cut off the crusts- damn, she was good- and pushed the plate across the counter.

“Thanks,” he mumbled through the crumbs, still avoiding eye contact.

He thought maybe she’d abandoned conversation, even though she was leaning against the counter watching him eat, but, no.

“Tell me about Istanbul,” she asked dreamily. “ _Please_. I want to hear _all_ about it. Emre’s promised to bring me and show me around but, honestly: I’m pretty sure he’s only be there himself, like, twice.”

Lazar hesitated, but, she had given him a majorly good peanut butter sandwich.

He told her little bits: about how beautiful he thought the city was, and the improvement in the weather, things like that. He left out the football: how it was good to have this chance, but he still missed that about Liverpool. He missed the fun. His new teammates were great and all, but they just weren’t quite as _fun_.

He was stopped in mid-sentence by the sound of the door opening in the hall; and his heart began to thud, harder and harder and faster and faster and suddenly it was difficult to breathe.

Maria frowned first- probably wondering where all the colour in Lazar’s face had drained to- but then she heard the door opening too and turned at the sound.

Grinning, she placed a finger against her lips to shush him- like Lazar would have been capable of saying anything at all, anyway- and winked.

Lazar half wondered if he’d been invited here for Maria’s entertainment.

He watched her glide out of the kitchen into the hall, and when she closed the door over, he heard her announce: “I’m going spinning with Anita. See you?”

Emre- out there, in the hall: so close, so far, all that stuff- let out a confused sound, and it was followed by an smacking one: Maria planting a large, wet kiss on his cheek, probably; and then whispers, and then the door closed again.

Lazar sat frozen in his seat, paralysis taking such a hold on his body that even breathing hurt. Everything was dry: his lips, his throat; this was worse than his first crush. Oh just so much worse: because he had so forcefully removed Emre from his thoughts since he’d left. He was glad he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it: because when Emre sighed out in the hall, from exhaustion, relief; it wasn’t so different from that first time with him, when Lazar had been pressed between his body and the tiled wall of the showers in Melwood.

This was the _worst_ suspense, and Lazar even had a career that revolved around nerves. The back of his t-shirt felt damp, sticking slightly to the base of his spine.

He wasn’t sure what reaction he had made up his mind to expect from Emre in the ten seconds it took for him to reach the door from the hall and open it.

It wasn’t that he expected, or wanted, a crazily romantic reunion scene, or a serenade, or any kind of raucous passion- all these things weren’t really Emre’s style, and Lazar wouldn’t change him for anything. A smile would’ve been nice, though. Or at the very least some sort of gesture of recognition.

As it was, Emre kind of stood half-ways into the kitchen looking like he’d just been roused from a very deep sleep: he paused, the skin around his eyes only loose enough to let them open, looking very much like he was seeing Lazar and also seeing him right there presently in his kitchen and that, somewhere deep in his mind, he was wondering why this shouldn’t add up.

Lazar offered him a smile. Unfortunately it was a pathetic attempt and came out more like a grimace.

Emre blinked slowly, his eyebrows drawing in tight.

“What are you doing here?”

Lazar was about to reply with something as wonderfully sarcastic as, “I missed you too!” but decided not to, just in case his sarcasm didn’t switch on and he was left feeling even more pathetic, or cried- because as it was he was just so weakened with stupid relief seeing Emre there.  He looked exactly the same as he had six months ago- like no time at all had passed since the last time Lazar had walked out the door, and now, Lazar was starting to desperately wish that Emre would just come over and put his arms around him.

Instead, he tried to smile again, and shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, pretty drily given that he was full-on-Alleluia-chorus rejoicing throughout his entire body, “surprise. It’s me.”

Emre blinked ferociously. “What?” he asked. Then, “why?” because now he was less startled, and more confused.

Lazar regained just enough motor skill to fidget in his seat, swallowing hard when he looked down at his hands because: shit, had this been a terrible idea? Had Emre not called because, as it turned out, Emre didn’t actually miss him, at all?

But Maria had said. Maria had _promised_ , so get a goddamn grip, Lazar. _And let go of your lip too._ He let his teeth slowly detach where they’d fastened on the bottom one, just in case it started to quiver. Unfortunately, Emre knew the sign and by the time Lazar managed to look up again, he had managed to shuffle a few steps forward before he caught himself, reconsidered, and started to walk towards the kitchen counter again.

Lazar was the one who stretched, catching the loose shirt at Emre’s waist with the ends of his fingers and smoothing them around to grip at his back. He burrowed into his chest, breathing out when Emre’s arms folded around him: they moulded together like the best rehearsed dance, so much so that it was a relief when they did, and Lazar wondered how he’d passed the last six months without practising it.

Emre’s lips brushed the top of his lips just at his crown, and even on the stool Lazar was still short enough to snuggle in under his neck, with its lovely pockets of Emre smell. It was a nice minute that stretched on for about a year- all close and warm and home. And when he felt Emre’s nose make its way down his cheek, Lazar lifted his head to beat him to the kiss.

It was closed-mouthed and soft, and holy hell, Lazar had _missed_ this. Emre’s lips angled perfectly to fit right up close to him, and he felt the breath on his cheek, like a caress.

Lazar could have been over-rating it, honestly, he didn’t care. It had been a long time since he’d been kissed, and in that lacuna, this was the kind of kiss he’d dreamed of getting. Especially when one of Emre’s hands- big enough to fit the whole way around Lazar’s cheek, and then some- slid back into his hair, pulling it gently back from his face.

Lazar’s eyes wouldn’t open any faster than those of a particularly lazy tortoise, and he fell straight in to Emre’s: brown like cleanly cut pieces of smoky quartz. There was even a shine somewhere behind his pupils, a shine so sudden when their eyes met that Lazar had to duck his head, embarrassed by the intensity of it. Because how had he come to deserve that, after all these months of silence?

“Hey,” Emre murmured, his chin dipping like he was doing his best to keep his gaze in Lazar’s immediate line of vision. “Don’t, I-“, he ran his fingers under Lazar’s chin, lifting it up again. “I really didn’t expect this, is all.” A beat, where he looked like he was going to say something else, but didn’t.

Lazar managed to tear his eyes away from Emre’s to cast them over his face- those three tiny creases between his brows, letting him know that he was still rather confused. His- for once- unwaxed hair reaching from the crest of his head in a spiralling floof. Lazar lifted his hand, reached, touched it- it bounced under his hand, and he grinned despite himself.

“I missed you,” he murmured, still euphoric despite Emre being still slightly detached in his bewilderment: he hadn’t expected to be back in his arms this fast, to be kissed like nothing had changed; like there hadn’t been all those months of silence. “I really missed you,” he said, this time with more certainty.

Emre’s throat rumbled, and his lips curled into that purest of mega-watt smiles. It was enough to make Lazar dizzy, being this close to it. So dizzy that he pressed his head into Emre’s chest again, and when he did the lingering image of his teeth still burned like neon behind his eyelids.

With one big arm around his waist, Emre half-lifted, half-tugged Lazar from the stool, bringing him right up close. Weird, unrelenting joy swooped through Lazar when he relished the fact that they were so welded together that he couldn’t possibly snuggle any closer.

Emre hummed and began slowly fingering trough Lazar’s hair, wrapping one curl around his finger. Lazar smiled about the fact that Emre was still the only person he had given express permission to do that- because Emre’s hands were so careful about it, and only ever pulled just the right amount; even when everything grew hot and intense.

Lazar couldn’t count the steps until they were horizontal, wasn’t even sure he had taken them- just that there was an incredible softness all around him, and the lingering gratification that Emre’s room hadn’t changed a bit- not even the clothes heaped on the chair in a corner. Lazar could have sworn that that was the exact same t-shirt on top of the pile that had also been there in July, but then it was hard to tell. For a start, Emre didn’t have much imagination when it came to retail, and also, Lazar didn’t have a long enough look- so absorbed was he on lying here on Emre’s bed, kissing, and cuddling- burying his laughter in Emre’s shoulder as he recounted stories from training. Of Mama’s Snapchat Intervention, and Philippe’s Baby Photo Sharing Intervention (“I’ve weathered so many proud parents, but, _honestly_ ”), that made Lazar laugh so hard his cheeks ached. Or maybe they ached from kissing.

“I miss them,” he mumbled. “I miss all of them. But I miss you the most,” he lifted his head, pressed those last words under the curve of Emre’s jaw, below his ear.

Emre paused, again; like he had something to add to that. Lazar waited for him to decide on his words when his lips parted, admiring the soft heart-shape they created when they drew together, their flushed colour; embracing, finally, just how twitterpated he really was- the whole exhilarating, numbing feeling of it.

“Do you?” Emre murmured. “Miss me? Really?”

“Of _course_ ,” Lazar coughed, surprised. He ran his fingers carefully around the edge of Emre’s mouth. That way he didn’t miss the stretch of Emre’s lips to his response, able to manoeuvre the edge of his thumb into the tiny dimple that formed just under the crease of his cheek.

“What are you doing,” Emre asked, “when you’re here?”

 _Seeing you_ , Lazar almost said. He suddenly felt uncomfortable, and shifted a little; wondering suddenly if it was a bad idea, to come all this way to see Emre. To come all this way to _share_ him.

Suddenly it felt like a really, stupid, idea. Suddenly he couldn’t believe that he’d crossed the whole of Europe to see a guy he’d hooked up with a few times. And he paused.

Emre noticed. Emre couldn’t help but notice, this close to his face, with one of his long arms resting carefully along Lazar’s ribs; that Lazar went tense. So he swallowed, and pulled him closer.

“Are you going to come back?” he whispered.

“Did you miss me?” Lazar blurted out, word-vomited into the small space between them. And when Emre hesitated. “I missed you. Did you miss _me_?”

Silence weighed down in his ears like an anvil.

“Are you going to come back?” Emre whispered, again.

“Well, _did_ you?”

He watched as Emre drew his bottom lip under his teeth, and didn’t reply.

Dumbfounded, he rolled over, staring at the other side of the room, not quite taking it in.

 _You’re an idiot_ , he told himself, angrily. _Oh my God, you are such an idiot._

“Hey,” Emre’s voice said, soft, just audible over the sound of him moving closer across the bed, moving right up behind Lazar and pulling him into. And Lazar was so weak, _man_ , he had craved this for too long that he didn’t even try and fight it.

“I’m going to sleep,” he said quietly, when Emre put his lips on his neck.

Emre wriggled closer, not letting go.

“Okay,” he replied. Then, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

_But you didn’t miss me._

It was small, but it hurt. Lazar didn’t know why it hurt so much. And Emre didn’t leave, Emre held on to him while Lazar feigned sleep for the longest, longest time; just long enough for him to finally drift.

* * *

 

Lazar realised that he was hearing German. However, he was also not quite awake enough to be able to piece together exactly _what_ he was hearing in German. His head hurt- he’d slept too lightly- and he stretched out under the blanket.

 _A blanket?_ That hadn’t been there when he’d fallen asleep.

He rolled over.

_Where is Emre?_

Suddenly the German coming from the kitchen made sense. Two Germans.

 _Maria’s home_.

He rubbed at his face and ran his fingers through his hair in a desperate attempt to flatten it, and sat up. _Wake up! Get your German going!_

There was a pink hairbrush on the bedside table. Lazar stared at it for a long time, remembering that his German was sketchy, at best; and that he’d only ever really spoken it when either Emre or Maria had dumbed it way down for him. Because outside in the kitchen, the German terms being thrown around were not simple, and were also definitely being _thrown_.

He looked at the pink hairbrush again. He genuinely wondered which one of them it belonged to. He stood up. He readjusted his shirt, pulled it down until he sat tight around his shoulders, scooped his trousers off the floor. He took careful steps towards the door.

Maria saw him first, standing at the other side of the counter again- a kettle in her hand this time, but like she’d forgotten about it, and was more using it to gesture with; like a prop. Emre stood with his back to him, Lazar could see the way the cotton of his top clung to where the muscles of his shoulders knotted.

“Hey,” he croaked, in his smallest voice, “what’s up?”

But it travelled. Lazar’s lungs must have had some sort of projection that he didn’t know about because his question filled the room and it fell deathly silent.

Maria looked- glared- at Emre, and Emre looked at the floor; in a way that unmistakably said: _you_.

“ _Emre_ ,” Maria said, eventually, exasperated. Then, “fine.” She turned to Lazar, switching to English. “I’m telling them that he’s a real loser for not trying to fight for you. _There_.” She redirected the final emphasis back at her guilty-looking boyfriend. “I said it.”

Lazar looked at him too, now, as he slowly raised his head, drank Lazar in with stupid wide eyes. Lazar crossed his arms tight around himself. _Remember your New Year’s resolution! No more puppy! Take a stand!_

Except Lazar was very good at telling himself this, but not particularly good at acting on it. Instead, he just sort of lingered there, uncertainly, while Emre seemingly worked out how to articulate himself.

So, Lazar turned to Maria. This was partially her fault, after all. He wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t asked, or if she didn’t consistently rank among his favourite people in the world. “He didn’t miss me,” he said, trying to be snarky, finishing pathetic.

Maria put the kettle forcefully down on the counter, making Emre jump when he turned. “You _moron_.”

“Look,” Emre burst out, “Laz,” for the first time that evening he addressed Lazar by name, and he said it all softly, all mopey and whispery like he was caressing the word, and Lazar was so damn weak; his arms dropped before he could register. “I don’t want to hold you here. Hold you back, I mean.” He threw his eyes up to heaven, probably looking for support up there that he was definitely not going to get in his kitchen. “If you want to move on with your life, away from here.” He paused. “Look, I _know_. I know what football is like. I know you need your chance. You _have_ to take your chance.” He wrung his fists out, imploringly.

There were a million things Lazar could have said to that. He could have questioned it, accepted it, forgiven Emre for it. Instead, he said: “so?”

“So?” Emre bounced the question back at him, surprised.

“So,” Lazar began slowly, and in his eternal fear of confrontation, tried to find the right words. His heart was already beating a little bit too fast. “You pretended that you didn’t miss me.” Emre opened his mouth to answer, but Lazar continued, sounding a lot braver than he was feeling. “You didn’t call me. Not a postcard. Not a _word_. Like _suddenly_ that would stop _me_ missing _you_.”

Emre looked a bit taken aback by this out-of-character assertiveness. Lazar made a mental note to later remind him that, when he’d left, they’d been level on red cards, _actually_.

“Yes?” Emre tried, eventually. Maria let out a frustrated noise.

“You two are idiots,” she informed them. Lazar actually felt himself smile a bit.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, again.

“Every day,” Emre said, weakly. His shoulders dropped. “ _Every_ day.”

Lazar’s chest warmed. He looked at Maria.

She winked. “Tell him.”

Emre looked between them, worn out and totally baffled.

“Uh,” Lazar began. “This… isn’t a social visit. Wait,” he cleared his throat. “I mean, it is. I’m here to see you. But I got a phone call last week, from, uh. It was from Jurgen Klopp,” he practically threw up the sentence, “and he wanted to know where I was leaning to at the end of my loan. So _I_ called Maria.” He swallowed. “I wanted to know if we still… worked.”

Emre shook his head. “If you’re trying to tell me that I’m going to play a part in your decision, I…” he shook it more forcefully. “No way. Count me out. I can’t give you what you deserve.”

“Yeah, but you give me what I _want_ ,” Lazar said, as Maria laughed. “I want you. Even a little bit of you. If, uh,” he folded his arms again, hugged himself. “If that’s okay.”

Emre looked perplexed for a little while longer, but slowly- _really_ slowly, he cracked into a grin, wide enough and mighty enough that it forced his lips, then his teeth to part in the purest delight.

“You’re coming back?” He asked, all celestial and euphoric, and Lazar just about stopped himself from racing across the room to throw himself at him; deciding that it would ruin the moment, this one moment in his whole life where he’d hand the upper hand.

“Well, if you get me the phone,” he said, casually. “I can double check with Mr. Klopp.”


End file.
